Three Little Words
by Child of Loki
Summary: or Four Times Chris LaSalle Told Meredith Brody 'I Love You' And The One Time She Said It Back. Cherri
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**NCIS: New Orleans **_**or its characters…**

**Author's Note: So this fandom is making me try all sorts of new things. Believe it or not, I had never previously done a holiday-themed fic before my obsession with Brody/LaSalle (I think Marjorie K Place suggested 'Cherri' and I think I like that ship name). And neither have I tried the '5 times' style fic before now. Inspired by BlackBear53's comment 'What happens when he does use the L word?' in response to Merri's feeling that she doesn't have to worry about that in my **_**Give and Take **_**fic.**

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**THREE LITTLE WORDS 'or' FOUR TIMES LaSALLE TOLD BRODY 'I LOVE YOU' AND ONE TIME SHE SAID IT TO HIM**

**I. Sating The Ravenous Beast**

Christopher LaSalle could feel that tightening in his abdomen, the beast that never seemed sated was creeping up on him. But he was in the middle of tracking the movements of an especially wily suspect and didn't want to stop until he'd pinned the bastard's location down. Okay, so after Robbie Arnold charged a motel room to the credit card stolen off his neighbor, Mrs. Waters, where did he head next? Theoretically, he seemed to be heading north. So if Chris cross-referenced the three dozen lists of charges on cards in Southern Louisiana that had been reported lost in the past week...

The beast clawed him right in the stomach, and then growled its discontent.

_Damn._

Chris pushed back from the computer monitor which he'd been so obscenely close to that there may in fact be a smudge from the tip of his nose in the middle. Hastily, he pulled open the bottom right drawer of his desk... And found it lamentably empty. No bags of Doritos or pork rinds. No power bars. Or chocolate bars. No trail mix. No jerky. When had he depleted his reserves? He usually always made sure he had a stock of eats on hand. But-

His stomach growled angrily once more.

Ah, hell. He sighed, got to his feet and went to scrounge in the kitchen. Even before King had taken up residence in the building, the man had kept the fridge and pantry well stocked. Perhaps knowing his junior agent's perpetually unsatisfied stomach, and borderline hypoglycemia issues. But alas, Dwayne Pride had been in Washington the past few days, by special request of the director, serving on some review board reevaluating NCIS protocols and procedures.

All there was in the fridge were the remains of a brick of old cheese -currently entirely covered in mold- and all the various condiments and components Pride used to make his famous sauces. There was plenty of rice in the cupboards, but for how long that took to prepare, Chris might as well go out in search of food. The damned beast began to claw its way out of his stomach. At least, that's what it felt like. And if he was already at the point of hunger pangs, then he would likely very shortly become light-headed, or get the shakes.

Maybe Brody had a granola bar or something in her desk? That was an invasion of her privacy he rather not succumb to, riffling through her belongings when she wasn't there, but god, was he in a bad way... He'd try Pride's desk first, but the man didn't believe in 'junk food'. King was a slow food nut, but that didn't help a man who needed an immediate pickmeup.

Resigned, Chris plopped down in his chair once more, one hand on his grumbling, aching, empty stomach. He stared at Brody's vacant, neatly organized desk. She must keep something in there, just in case. She was always prepared. There was probably a first aid kit, water purifier, even whole MREs, for god's sake! But what if he came across personal, _woman _things? No. No, he wouldn't go scrounging through her things for something to sate his irately neglected stomach.

He'd just have to abandon his post, lock up the entire building, since he was the only one there at the moment, head to the nearest place he get food, just down the block, but they always had at least a 20 minute wait time to even place an order, let alone get your meal, even to go... Feeling a little dizzy, he placed his head in his hands and allowed himself to wallow in self-pity as he tried to prevent the world from beginning to spin around him.

There was a loud _thunk _and he opened his eyes to see an extremely greasy looking white paper bag sitting on the desktop before him. He glanced up at Meredith Brody's patiently smiling face. A wrinkle formed between her brows and at one corner of her mouth as she gave him a concerned little frown.

"What's this?" he asked, already unrolling the top of the paper sack and delving a hand inside, making the waxed paper crackle loudly. He wasn't sure that he actually cared what precisely it was. It could be charred gopher on a stick, for all his stomach cared. He pulled a foil wrapped tube out of the bottom.

"It's a burrito, from that new Mexican place," Brody said. Normally, Chris would harass the shit out of her for buying Mexican food in the heart of the Cajun culinary world, but again, charred gopher would satisfy him at the moment. He unwrapped one end, okay, unwrapped about half of the tortilla-encased concoction, and shoved as much of it as would fit into his mouth. He could barely move his jaw to chew.

"It is 3 O'Clock," she said. "About the time when you need to feed that black hole you call a stomach again."

He stopped chewing, staring at her for a moment. Well, it was pretty obvious that he stuffed his face with something or the other about this time every day. But the thoughtfulness of the gesture was rather pleasing. And so was the burrito. God, it was good. A little bit spicy. Not soggy but not too dry. Still hot. Greasy. It silenced the growling beast in his stomach.

"I think I love ya, Meredith Brody," he said, around a mouthful of half-masticated burrito. "You're a friggen lifesaver."

His mama had always tried, god love her, but she never did teach him not to talk with his mouth full. But the female agent didn't seem to mind, smiling at him, one eyebrow raised, giving him that look he'd come to know so well. It was one of a sort of aloof amusement. Not condescending, or anything. He didn't get the sense that she thought herself superior to him, just that they were different enough that he was a curiosity to her, as if he were a foreign creature that she found interesting, and really wanted to understand. And also, that she genuinely seemed to like him. At least, he hoped so. Because he liked her, found her just as intriguing as that look implied she found him.

And she'd brought him food.

He might just be in love.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Another pre-ship/romance scene…**

**II. Tickling The Bone**

It had been one of those days. And despite his best efforts to stave off the bad mood, Chris LaSalle had finally admitted defeat. He wanted to crawl into bed and sleep the rest of the week off. Only, he probably wouldn't be able to sleep. So maybe the ideal plan was to down a quart of whiskey while mindlessly watching a ballgame, and then pass out on the couch if he couldn't manage to stumble to his bed.

It wasn't the case. Yes, it was depressing. People murdering one another always was, but he'd learned to cope with that a long time ago. He truly believed that having a positive outlook on the world would bolster one's own spirits, and he always tried to find the good in any situation, even if the best he could come up with was that taking photos and cataloguing evidence in a damp, remote field was that the sky was true blue and his partner had a pretty smile.

Meredith Brody had a decent sense of humor, but she tended to be a bit more serious and cynical about the world than necessary (in his opinion), often giving him admonishing looks, or bewildered ones, when he cracked a joke or gave her a big ol' grin, just because. Well, just because he liked it when she smiled back, even -maybe especially- when it was that suppressed smile that twitched the corner of her mouth as she battled its manifestation, although he could see the laughter clearly in her eyes. However, even though he often could make her smile, he knew that uptight federal agent that lived in her head (and likely ran the place most of the time) would prefer that he were more 'professional' in his demeanor. But even so, he'd caught her studying him with concern in her eyes over the past few days.

She'd probed, gently, without going all pushy interrogator on him, but he'd been reluctant to share his troubles with her. And he wasn't really sure why. She and Pride were honest to god his closest friends, the two people he trusted most in the entire world, better than family to him. Don't get him wrong, he loved his mother, sister and brother... but with those three, he was the giver, the one who listened to their troubles, fixed their problems. He couldn't hold it against them that it rarely occurred to them that he sometimes needed help, too. That even his spirits could use a lift every now and then.

Cade had been getting worse by the day, was a handful to manage, especially for a worn out federal agent who spent long hours investigating grisly crimes and getting all banged up chasing down suspects who more often than not resisted being arrested. The doctors had explained it to them both, and it made sense. Every person's brain chemistry was different, and it would take a little time, many small adjustments of medication to figure out what worked best to help Cade cope with his bipolar disorder. But just because it had a valid explanation, didn't mean it was any easier to deal with the troubled man's bad days, to see the frustration, anger, and confusion in his eyes as he slipped into manic episodes or became lethargic and not quite himself. Whatever dosage adjustment they'd made last time around, lessening it because Cade complained about being hazy, it'd swung the man the opposite way. When Chris had awoken that morning to find Cade sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor with every electronic appliance Chris owned taken apart, fiddling with a disemboweled toaster and muttering to himself, the federal agent finally broke down and spent a solid hour talking his big brother into checking himself back into the clinic until they could get his medication right.

In the end, Cade had submitted, his passive acceptance a blow worse than if he'd vehemently resisted. Chris had tried to cheer him up, but his brother simply ignored him, giving him a hurt look as he registered the troubled man in and talked to his doctor, like Cade were a puppy being abandoned at the pound. The only ray of hope in the whole situation was that Chris had managed to find Savannah in her office, let her know Cade was checked in, and she promised to keep an eye on him, let Chris know if there were any problems. She'd tried to flirt with him a little, tease him about that date he'd never quite asked her out on, but he wasn't feeling up to it all.

Chris felt like someone had jammed a straw into his heart and sucked a bit of his soul out. More than a bit. If he listened closely, he could hear that shallow slurping noise that occurred when there was too much air being drawn off the empty container. He'd been drained hollow.

And the day had only just begun. Pride and Brody were having at the suspect they'd dragged in, and Chris was observing, in case there were any leads or bits of information to be confirmed or tracked down without breaking the interrogation. He was supposed to be paying attention, but all he could think of was that look, that damned, crushed, despairing, _accusing_ look in Cade's eyes. He'd failed him. He'd abandoned him.

But what else could he do?

He paced about the observation room, rubbing the back of his neck hard, as if massaging his the muscles would make the oxygen flow to his brain better, as if being able to think just a little bit more clearly, a little bit harder, would solve all his problems.

No. Maybe Meredith Brody was right. Maybe the world wasn't an amusing place, full of things to make you smile and laugh and love life. It was unfair. And cold. And crushing. And one had to be as resilient as the 4 billion year old molten rock at the heart of the world to survive.

Chris walked up to the two-way glass, resting his forehead against it with a sigh.

He didn't want to live like that. He didn't want to live like _this_... But he couldn't see any way out. He felt so... alone.

The door squeaked open, letting in the bright daylight in a swathe across the floor of the dimly lit room, and Chris hastily turned his back, unwilling to let anyone see the tears wetting his cheeks. It was Brody. He could smell her clean, honeysuckle-tinged scent. He glanced through the glass to see Pride escorting the cuffed man out of interrogation, likely to be remanded to NOPD's temporary holding while NCIS filed charges... that was if the pair had broken the man. Chris hadn't been paying much attention to the troubles of others lately. It made him feel guilty and self-absorbed on top of everything else.

He felt the light pressure of Brody's slender hand on his back. It remained for a moment, then slipped away. He dreaded what she would say, that she would try to coax him into sharing his feelings, the ones that threatened to pour out like a deluge and drown him. He didn't need that right now. But she didn't leave.

"So 'Bama Boy." Her voice was light and teasing, had an appealing melodic quality to it as she spoke. "Have you heard the one about the two hillbillies who walk into a bar...?

_While having a shot of whiskey they talk about their moonshine operation. Suddenly, a woman at a nearby table who is eating a sandwich, begins to cough. After a minute or so, it becomes apparent that she is in real distress._

_One of the hillbillies looks at her and says, "Kin ya swaller?" The woman shakes her head no. "Kin ya breathe?" The woman begins to turn blue and shakes her head no._

_The hillbilly walks over to the woman, lifts up the back of her dress, yanks down her drawers and quickly gives her right butt cheek a lick with his tongue._

_The woman is so shocked that she has a violent spasm and the obstruction flies out of her mouth. As she begins to breathe again, the hillbilly walks slowly back to the bar._

_His partner says, "Ya know, I heerd of that there 'Hind Lick Maneuver', but I ain't never seed nobody do it!"_

The laughter bubbled up in him like a geyser. He couldn't have fought it, even if he'd wanted to do so. And he didn't. It was the precise release valve he'd needed, and all of his anxieties evaporated off like steam as he laughed so hard he was nearly doubled-up, a stitch in his side. It wasn't so much the joke, as the way she told it, and the fact that it had been Agent Meredith Brody doing the telling.

She helped him stand up straight once more, as he continued to laugh so hard the tears of mirth covered, overwhelmed the ones of sorrow that had previously wet his face. And she was grinning from ear to ear, quite pleased with herself.

"God, I love ya, woman," he managed to say between fits of laughter. "That was too good."

His situation hadn't changed, was still complicated and troublesome to his mind, but his heart had been lifted by the gesture of his fellow agent, his friend. He no longer felt alone, and the rest of the day wasn't nearly as long and depressing as it had started out. And when she'd offered to treat him to dinner, an obvious ploy to get him to open up about his personal problems, he was easily swayed. He even told her all about Cade's situation, and what he'd been dealing with as his brother's keeper.

Merri Brody was a damned good friend.

**A/N: Completely random, have I mentioned how much I am loving that these characters have personal lives in the canon/series? Even if it makes writing any sort of accurate fan fiction impossible… Love it! There are dozens of crime dramas out there, so the only thing that draws me in are the characters, and this series has me obsessed! **


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Another installment. Two more to go ;-)**

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**III. Befriending the Odd Bird**

Relationships were a mystery, how you could meet someone, like and respect them, but remain nothing more than colleagues for months... And then something changed, something so minor that you didn't even realize it'd happened, and events simply built from there until, until suddenly it seemed the entire nature of the relationship had changed. And she was the most important person in your life. And it was so very normal for her to be.

Merri Brody was _the_ best friend Chris had ever had. He'd shared laughs and fun times, and adventures with quite a few people. But none had every centered in his life like she did, had been so close to him, that she obviously knew what he was thinking, sometimes even before he thought it.

How had they gotten to this point?

Not that he was complaining. It was a really nice place to be. He buried his face in her neck, squeezing her gently, wanting to hold her warm body more snugly in his arms, but not wanting to wake her as she slept, curled up on the couch with him. Her skin smelled fresh, like the bar of dove soap she kept in his shower for after they went on runs together, or sparred, and she just washed up at his place because there was a game on later that they were going to catch. Oh, he knew watching football, basketball, baseball... that wasn't at all her thing, but he'd long ago decided never to point the fact out, because then maybe she'd withdraw out of embarrassment, unwilling to admit that she stuck around because she liked hanging out with him.

They worked together every day, and yet they now spent at least a few hours of their personal time together on nearly a daily basis. It had started because she'd been concerned about him, he knew, when he'd been really worn down by dealing with Cade's illness. And clever interrogation expert she was, she'd somehow managed to get him to let her in, to open up to her and share those few emotions he kept to himself.

He was always the smiling, cheerful, fun guy... At least that's what everyone expected, and that's what Chris had always tried to maintain. But he had become exhausted by it, by bearing the burdens on his own, having no one to talk to about his worries, his stress. Pride was always there for him, he knew, but to confess to the man about how completely helpless and worn out he was, to bitch about having to deal with his brother, when Chris knew his troubles weren't nearly as bad as what Cade himself was going through, when Pride had his own personal life issues, his separation from the love of his life, his strained relationship with his imprisoned father, the former CI that was out to get him... It felt to Chris a lot like whining to complain about a slight lack of sleep and minor depression.

But somehow, Merri didn't make it feel that way. She'd even begun to share with him, really and truly. Stories from her childhood, including Emily, memories that he could tell were equal parts pain and joy for her to relive. Her college days, backpacking around Europe, the mistakes she'd made as a green NCIS agent... What she liked… Her pet peeves. ..

On the surface, they seemed to have nothing in common. Merri liked wine. Chris liked beer. She liked to read modern literature. He favored the sports section of the newspaper. She was reserved and eloquent. He was effusive and boisterous.

But their differences were only skin deep. She had a secret pain in her, a hole in her heart that made her the only one capable of truly understanding his agony over his brother's troubles. She had a passion for justice to rival his own. And she liked food. One would think she would have a more 'refined' (or stuck up in Chris' opinion) palette, but she loved new foods of every variety, and their meals together were often a smorgasbord of random obscurity. Actually, they'd fallen into the pattern of cooking together at least twice a week, some new recipe she'd found that he always gave his two cents on. They argued over cutting and cooking methods, over spices, but it was always a light and playful sort of bickering.

It was also during one of those cooking sessions, that he'd learned she had a taste for old country music, the kind of songs that were so hick, they had nothing really in common with the modern, pop-like genre of country music. Patsy Cline had come on the radio, and she'd begun to absently sing along as she stirred the sauce, unwittingly shocking Chris with the fact that she knew every word. She blushed when she finally noticed him staring, and explained that her mother was a newspaper reporter, but she'd grown up a Minnesotan farm girl. And among the few things she hadn't dropped from her rural roots was a love of the classics. Apparently, Merri knew every Tammy Wynette song, Conway Twitty, Buck Owens and of course, Johnny Cash. With that revelation, he didn't bother to tune his radio away from the classic country station when she came over anymore. And there'd been several occasions when he'd twirled her about the kitchen, and they laughed as they danced.

It wasn't all good times. She was there for the bad, too, casually offering, since she was already there, to accompany him when he took Cade in for an emergency meeting with doctor at the clinic. To sit beside him on the couch, her hand gently resting on his knee as they drank whiskey, something Merri had seemed to develop a taste for in the few months since they'd grown closer, not talking about anything, not talking about the murdered child they'd found that day.

Chris couldn't imagine his life without her anymore, without hearing her voice, seeing her pretty face and gorgeous smile, laughing with her, just being with her, having her nearby, falling asleep on the couch with her... He wrapped his arms about her slender waist just a little bit further, pulling her back flush to his chest and placing a kiss on the nape of her neck, before whispering in her ear.

"I love you, Merri."

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**A/N: Do you think she heard him? I wonder how she felt about this confession? ;-)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Short one, but I wasn't going to force it to be any longer. It's precisely how it needs to be, I think.**

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**IV. Making It Known (before it's too late)**

Shit. That had been a stupid thing to do, hadn't it?

Chris LaSalle replayed the sequence of events over in his mind, and couldn't find any real mistakes, anything he would've done differently. They had only gone to the old airplane hangar to interview a witness, after all. Had no idea that the man should've also been a suspect. A suspect with a reason to shoot the federal agent sent there to question him, and then run.

Had there been some sign in the man's behavior he'd missed? Normally, if they were gonna do a runner, they didn't let the cops get close enough to grab them. Or at least, their guilty consciences had them as jumpy as a jackrabbit with a bloodhound on its trail. They didn't let the federal agent come right up to them, introduce himself, begin to ask questions, answer those questions with a calm smile, and then pull a piece he must have had hidden in the depths of his coverall pockets to shoot said federal agent point blank in the chest as he made a note of the supposedly benign witness' answers in his notepad

God, he was such an idiot! Why hadn't he been paying better attention?

"I'm sorry," Chris said, his lungs burning as he stared up at an extremely frantic Meredith Brody who was pressing her grey blazer to his chest. He knew it was her favorite, and it would be ruined now. He felt even more guilty.

"Sh!" She silenced him so sharply, he felt like she must blame him, too, for getting shot like that. But she hadn't chased down the suspect, instead sprinting up and dropping to her knees by his side. Pride was going to be mad that they let him get away, yet Chris couldn't feel guilty for that. Brody's eyes, despite the fear and anger, were the only distraction he had from the burning in his chest. Why did it hurt so damned much to breathe?

"You're going to be fine, Chris," she said, and unfortunately, for once, the woman with the poker face better than any he'd ever seen, with a talent for bluffing he couldn't begin to fathom, was a terrible liar.

"I'm an idiot," he said. He really was, for getting bushwhacked like that. Why was he so stupid? He hated the fear and despair in Merri's beautiful eyes. It was his fault she was on the verge of tears.

"No, you're not," she said, her tone even sharper than before. And not at all calm. "Now just shut-up. You've got a punctured lung. It's probably collapsed. You're going to suffocate yourself if you don't just shut up."

He swallowed, but all he could taste was blood, thick in his throat and a bitter metallic tang that tickled the back of his sinuses. That probably wasn't good.

Merri was leaning on him with one hand, the pressure an additional pain to the heat and burning sensation radiating from his chest. In her other hand, she held her cell phone, stretched it out to the limit of her slender arm's reach, waved it about, swore loudly. And then she gazed down upon him with the most sorrowful look in her pretty, pretty eyes. It was something akin to agony he found contorting the attractive features of her face.

"I've got to leave you alone for a minute, Chris," she said, her voice strained and high. "I need to get you help. But there's no service here."

She took his hand, placed it over the wadded up mass of her blood-soaked fabric on his chest. Feeling his blood squish between his fingers, thick and hot was probably the most disturbing thing he'd ever experienced. Her hand over his, she pressed down hard.

"Keep pressure on this," she said, some of her calm, professional federal agent demeanor returning as she ordered him about. "I need you to stay awake, and just focus on keeping pressure on the wound."

She smiled at him. The only disingenuous smile he'd ever seen on her face.

"Okay, Chris?" She was crying. He didn't want her to cry. He wanted to make her laugh, but couldn't think of any joke. He wanted to pull her into his arms and soothe her until the tears stopped. But she'd ordered him to hold tight to her jacket soaking up the blood pouring from his chest. "I'll be back in just a few minutes. I promise."

She began to push herself to her feet, but he caught her wrist with his free hand. He didn't know where he'd gotten the energy from. He was feeling extremely short of breath and dizzy. But he might never see her again. He couldn't let her go without her knowing. He just couldn't. He'd whispered it into her ear as she slept in his arms probably a dozen times now, but she'd never shown any sign that she'd ever been aware of the secret he'd told her while she dreamed. And he didn't know why it was so important now. But he needed to know that she knew.

"I have to go, Chris," she said, frantic, pleading. "Please."

"I love you, Meredith Brody," he said, his voice more rasp and breath than words. But he knew she heard him, as she stared him straight in the eyes and the tears stained her pale, freckled cheeks. Her bottom lip quivered.

Oh, she knew.

And then she was gone, her footsteps echoing through the empty hanger as she ran, leaving him alone and bleeding, yet not feeling alone. He'd carry her with him for the rest of his life.

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**A/N: One more part to go…**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Last installment. This was fun enough to write, even though there was a little bit too much sappy 'I love you' moments for someone like me to handle. ;-)**

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**V. Confessing Her Truth**

Meredith Brody's life hadn't exactly been an easy one. Oh, there were undeniably many people in the world who had it much worse than her, she knew. And perhaps she should be grateful that she'd only suffered a few heartaches, however devastating they might have been -continued to be- to her soul. She didn't have to scrounge for food, for survival. She had a comfortable home, friends, a decent job. One that she was even sort of good at, if she did say so herself... Well, most of the time.

But, god, how she'd failed this time. Hearing the gunshot. Watching Chris crumple to the ground in a rapidly forming pool of blood. She hadn't been able to run to his side fast enough. She _should_ have been there to begin with, but instead had been perusing the assorted junk filling the old airplane hangar. It wasn't an uncommon practice. One agent doing the questioning, the other checking out the premises. Besides, the man shouldn't have been a threat. LaSalle obviously hadn't detected anything suspicious about the 'witness', had let his guard down. But that was the very reason they often went to interview persons in pairs. A partner should've had his back.

Pride would've probably noticed, saved the younger man from being shot at point blank range in the chest.

_Oh, god._

Bile bit at her throat even remembering the sight of the agent, _her friend_, lying there with the life draining from him. So much blood. Pouring from his chest, and from beneath his back onto the cracked, grease-stained cement. The exit wound on his back had to have been larger than the one on his chest she'd hastily tried to stop up with her jacket... the once grey fabric now stained dark rusty brown with his blood, sitting in an evidence bag.

_Oh, Chris._

She carefully snaked her hand over the scratchy fabric, skimmed over the pleasantly warm flat stomach, until she had her arm completely draped over the unconscious man's waist, using it as leverage to snuggle further into his left side, nuzzling the exposed skin above the low neckline of the hospital gown he'd been half-dressed in after surgery. He smelled of stale sweat, the feverish perspiration of the ill, of the sharp tang of potent disinfectants, and beneath the more repulsive scents, the aroma she'd come to associate with her friend, a mixture of earthy maleness and the vaguely citrus soap she'd found in his shower. It was an aroma that often sweetened her dreams.

Resting her head on his shoulder, she stared at the bulky bandages swathing the right side of his torso. They looked white and clean. Deceptively so. She hadn't seen the damage, not clearly, just when it'd been a geyser-like hole in his shirt, but she imagined what sort of grisly sight it currently was, thick black stitches and raw, red healing skin. But likely, hopefully, not infected. At least, it was probably antibiotics in that IV bag, the tube disappearing into the back of the limp hand resting on his thigh.

The nurses had tucked him in with the blankets pulled up to his chest. But Merri knew how hot he got in his sleep, especially when she was lying pressed up flush to him, and had pushed them down to the foot of the bed before climbing onto the narrow mattress to curl up against Chris' uninjured side, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, both of his lungs working properly again, his breathing steady and strong, not that wheezing, rasping, suffocating noise he'd been making when she'd abandoned him in the hangar to drown in his own blood.

It had been the most painful decision she'd ever made in her life. Literally, _painful_. There'd been a tight knot in her chest as she forced herself to leave him, to run two miles down the overgrown trail back towards where they'd been forced to leave the SUV, until finally she'd gotten a signal on her cell phone, called 911 and breathlessly struggled to relay her plea for help. Agent down. GSW to the chest. Hurry.

Agent down.

Her friend. Chris LaSalle. Bleeding to death. All alone. Two miles away. Chris LaSalle. Who loved her.

She stared at the placid features of his face, his lips looking parched in the dry hospital environment, his cheeks normally clean shaven shaded with a couple days of stubble, and his expression entirely blank. It wasn't right. He was always cracking a grin, the one that lit up his entire face. Or, god, that _intense_ look of his. Or when she watched him sleep, the corner of his mouth or an eyebrow twitching, like a sleeping dog with a vivid dream of rabbits. Never like this, though. He never looked like this, like some sort of marble statue carved by a third rate artist who had no skill for giving a subject soul.

Where was he?

Where was the man who always tried to make her smile when she was feeling blue? Who teased her almost incessantly, beyond the point when she wanted to punch him in the arm? Who silently took her hand and squeezed it when she was on the verge of tears? Who cuddled up with her on the couch for a quiet relaxing Saturday watching old movies? Who held her in his arms when she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder? Who whispered a secret in her ear as she dreamed, one that warmed her heart, that made her feel as if she'd finally found her home?

"Come back to me," she whispered, taking his hand and squeezing it, returning that gesture he'd so readily bestowed upon her during her most vulnerable moments. There was no real reason to worry. The doctors said he'd make a full recovery, that he only hadn't woken up yet because his body was too busy healing, too worn down by the pulmonary trauma he'd suffered. But her heart wasn't as logical as her mind, and she only wanted to bask in the gaze of those blue eyes of his, in his ridiculously charming smile that melted her insides, to lie in the cozy embrace of his arms.

When had he become the most important thing in her universe?

Merri didn't know. And she didn't care. And she no longer had the energy to even deny it.

"I love you, Chris LaSalle," she said softly before burying her face in his neck, trying to fight the tears, the thought of losing him breaking her heart along the fault lines it already possessed.

Something tickled her palm, making her start, and then she realized it was his fingers slowly twitching in her hand, and she pushed herself up to look down upon his face, to see a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, just like when she watched him having a pleasant dream as they lay curled up on the sofa. She stroked his forehead as the little movements grew larger and his rise to consciousness continued, concluding with that half-whine-half-groan noise he usually made in the back of his throat when he woke and stretched like a cat before proceeding to squeeze her tight and tickle her neck with his nose. This time, however, he only blinked a bit and then stared up at her with his blue eyes as vivid as dark sapphires, a lopsided little boy grin curling his lips.

And Merri cried as she smiled back down at him, the man who for some unfathomable reason loved her, who she herself had accidentally fallen in love with and couldn't seem to regret it. Especially not when he was so _alive _and looking at her like she was the center of his world. Which was fitting, for he'd become the center of hers, as well.

"I love you," she said, just one more time, for good measure.

END


End file.
